I've Got Soul But I'm Not A Soldier
by XmaddysigX
Summary: Draco Malfoy joined the Dark Lord's service more than happily. That changed very quickly. This is ALL of HBP from Draco's perspective.


Draco Malfoy lounged idly in a leather large armchair, his arms draped over the sides weakly. He contemplated the room around him vaguely. It was his bedroom: a large chamber. The floor was hardwood as was his impressively carved four-poster bed. Silk green drapes hung over the large window, blocking the early summer sunlight. A desk, a bureau and a bookshelf occupied the room, as well as Draco's old armchair.

"Draco!" Narcissa Malfoy's voice floated from downstairs. "I've got a surprise for you!"

She had said that in the morning. Draco was rather unmiffed by this surprise. He was still cranky about the end of term's events as well as his father's imprisonment and doubted material surprises would make everything better.

Draco stood slowly and sauntered downstairs, into the drawing room. It was decorated by his mother: flouncy and covered in lace. It was a room Draco tended to avoid.

"Yeah?" he asked his mother moodily, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Here's your surprise!"

Narcissa held up long black robes. Draco looked at them dully, making a face. "Well I was right. Sorry Mother, but robes don't make me feel bubbly inside."

"These are special robes," said Narcissa. It was then that Draco noticed that she wasn't smiling. In fact, she looked as if on the verge of tears. Her voice shook slightly as she extended her arm, the robes fluttering eerily.

Draco considered the situation, then cast all wariness aside. What did he have to fear from a pair of robes? He approached his mother and reached out for them.

As he stood closer, he saw the black thread had a rather shiny tint. The front was pleated in a way that wouldn't have been accepted at Hogwarts. The neckline was wider than most robes and had a strange collar-like fold.

"What are these?" he asked sharply.

And to his surprise, his mother burst in to tears. Narcissa drew the robes into her chest, crushing them, and fell on the fussy couch with a sob. Draco stood above her, feeling impatient. The woman rarely cried and when she did Draco felt thoroughly miserable.

Draco sighed and rolled his eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked dryly.

"Oh, Draco!" Narcissa gasped. "I c-can't do this to you. N-no, not m-my on-only son."

Confusion clouded Draco for a moment, and after it came apprehension. "What? They're just robes, Mother."

Narcissa sniffled and looked up at her son. She wiped her tears away hurriedly and looked up at him soppily; Draco looked away.

"It's the meaning of the robes," she said thickly.

Draco folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. "They're metaphorical robes?"

Narcissa let out a little squeak and then attempted to regain her composure. "D-Draco, you're proud of your Father, aren't you? Of what he does?"

"Sure," said Draco uncertainly. "Well, I suppose. What part are we talking about?"

"His...services," his mother whispered.

Draco's back stiffened. His mother had always supported her husband, why was she sobbing helplessly now?

"What do the robes have to do with his services?" Draco reached for the crumpled cloth but his mother quickly slapped his hand away.

"Once you take these you must know what will come of you," she said breathlessly, her gray eyes enormous.

Slowly comprehension came to Draco. Elation filled his heart but at the same time the feeling of dread weighted his stomach. "Are these...Death Eater's robes?"

A fresh wave of sobs came over Narcissa and she nodded her trembling head. Draco felt stunned. He dropped down onto the couch next to her, his mouth slightly open, his cheeks reddening. He didn't quite know what to make of the situation.

"Am I being recruited?" he asked shakily.

"Oh!" Narcissa gave a wail of dispair. "You're only a boy! M-my little b-boy!"

Anger rushed through Draco. He stood up aggressively and strode away to the other side of the room. "I'm not a child, Mother," he drawled loudly. "I can make my own decisions."

"It's not yours to make," sniffed Narcissa.

"It's yours?"

"No."

"Why are you doubting me?" Draco struggled to keep his voice down. Now the pride and happiness was overwhelming. He, Draco Malfoy, was being requested to join the Dark Lord's ranks! He ripped back his left sleeve and stared at his white arm. It might even get the Mark...what an Honor it would be.

"It's a trap, Draco!" wailed Narcissa.

Draco scowled. "I thought the Dark Lord was affirmative in his decisions. He's called upon me so...I guess I've got to become a Death Eater." A strange shiver went up his spine as he spoke t he word aloud.

Narcissa made an unattractive gasping sound. She leapt to her feet and hurried over to Draco, who crossed his arms immediately. Her long cold fingers found her son's face and she held onto it. Draco's eyes widened and he squirmed uncomfortably.

"He will make our home his permanent residence," she whispered very close to his face.

Draco reached up and pulled Narcissa's hands off of his face. He brought them firmly to her sides, then snapped his own away from her. "Pull yourself together, Mother. It will be an honor, won't it?"

Narcissa managed a watery smile. Relieved, Draco stepped aside and returned to the robes. As he picked them up (they felt strangely light and whispy in his fingers), the doorbell rang.

"Now who would that be?" Narcissa asked rhetorically, alarmed.

"Dunno, but the Dark Lord wouldn't be the type to politely ring the front doorbell, would he?" Draco sniggered. "So it's not him. Relax, Mother."

Narcissa crossed the room in a couple strides. Her hand came down sharply and struck Draco's cheek. Draco winced and felt his cheek flame in pain. He squinted up at his mother, who was usually shorter than him, but was now standing erect over her cowering son. Her pale lips trembled.

"That will be the last flippant cheek coming from you, Draco Abraxas," she hissed shakily. "Or it will be the end for all of us. Do you understand?"

Draco stared into her eyes, gray and identical to his, and nodded.

The doorbell rang again and they both jumped.

Narcissa sighed impatiently and hurried from the room. Draco put a hand to his stinging cheek and exercised his jaw. His parents very rarely hit him, especially his mother. But still the boy did not quite comprehend the seriousness of the situation.

Footsteps and voices came from the main room. Narcissa stuck her head in. She was smiling in the unpleasant way that she did when guests arrived at short notice, or when she was confronted with someone for whom she held contempt.

"Draco," she said sweetly, "our guests would like to talk to you. Bring out those robes, please, dear."

Draco blinked in confusion. He picked up the robes, draped them over his arm, and left the room. He followed his mother's figure uncertainly until they reached the large entrance hall. Draco was surprised to see a veritable congregation of people in his house.

"Hello," he said calmly, trying to appear aloof.

He now recognized the people as Death Eaters. There was his aunt Bellatrix Lestrange, Severus Snape, Dolohov, Macnair, and several others Draco was not familiar with.

"Draco!" exclaimed Bellatrix dramatically. She rushed up to him, a whirlwind of phsychotic affection. "I heard the news! Congratulations, my nephew!" She seized his face with both of her long-finger-nailed hands and kissed him on both cheeks. She drew away, grinning at him, her eyes glinting and cheeks flaming. Draco tried not to flinch at her leer and grinned back.

"Thanks, Bellatrix," he said.

"Let 'im breath, Lestrange," said Dolohov.

"How'd you all get out of Azkaban?" Draco asked. He threw the the robes carelessly over his shoulder and joined the group with his hands in his pockets.

"Macnair and I broke out ourselves," Dolohov grinned menacingly. "The rest of the idiots- well..." he glanced at Draco's face, then trailed off hopelessly. He cast his eyes around the chamber, looking pathetic and awkward. Draco shook his head. He felt slightly stung at the shadow of an insult on his father, but let it slide.

"Congratulations, Draco," said a sneering voice.

"Hello, Professor," said Draco. Now he drew himself to full height. He felt the meaning of what he was joining fill within him. His eyes almost twinkled and a true smile broke his face.

"Welcome to the ranks of the Great servitude," said Snape. He held Draco's gaze and Draco felt uneasy at the tone in which Snape spoke to him.

"Ah, let him be, Severus," said a squat woman. "Well done, lad. I expect the Master himself will want to induct you personally.

Draco felt a thrill of every emotion surge through him. For a moment he strugged to find his voice. "I can't wait," he said with as much strength as he could; he was feeling slightly weak.

He felt a hand at his shoulder, and then an arm steered him away from the reception.

"Come with me for a moment," Aunt Bellatrix hissed in his ear. Her breath was hot and startling; Draco shuddered. He allowed himself to be dragged by the neck back into the fussy drawing room. It seemed to be the Room of the Day.

"What's up?" Draco asked.

Bellatrix's hand on his shoulder became suddenly vicelike and she shoved him over to the couch. Annoyed at being pushed and ushered, Draco nonetheless sat down. He looked up at his half mad aunt expectantly.

"Is Father getting out of Azkaban?" Draco asked quickly.

"Eventually," said Bellatrix with an impatient wave of her hand. "There cannot be a mass breakout yet. Master is still working the scenes quietly. He will come into the open when he is ready."

Draco nodded.

"Cissy will never let me live if I don't tell you this, Draco," said Bellatrix. She stopped pacing and held his gaze, her eyes narrowed and cheeks bright. "Working for the Dark Lord is not easy and it is not fun. It is an honor, yes, but it is work and it is dangerous. I know you are a talented and brave young lad, but Cissy-"

"Mother doubts me," Draco muttered.

"Yes," Bellatrix conceded frankly. Draco glared at her.

"Just be prepared for anything," said Bellatrix sternly. "Remember to do everything and anything the Dark Lord tells you. You must be successful in everything you do. He will be hard on you, Draco, and the closer he gets to that beautiful power for which he aims, the harder will he be yet. Never, ever lie to him. He will almost always hate the truth, but it is better than a lie."

An unsettling nervousness came over Draco now. He recalled his Father's stress, so desperately hidden but so very obvious, even to his young son. But the Dark Lord put faith in his old and trustworthy...would he really put an important task on a young newcomer?

"Thanks, I guess, Aunt," he said and stood up from the couch which was hurting his rear end. As she reached the doorway, he added: "Although you aren't talking about him with your usual ferver. He's not so amazing now, you're just saying he's a bossy old thing."

Bellatrix turned to look at him over her shoulder slowly. A cold smirk played her red lips and her dark eyes gleamed. "When he gets his ultimate power, it will all be worth it," she said in a low, mysterious voice. Still smirking slyly she faced forward and marched out of the room.

At her disappearance, Draco put his hand up to his forehead. His Aunt was an amazing witch, it was true, but was definitely mad. Draco couldn't understand how one person could be so adoring of a person then speak almost bitterly of the formerly adored person a second later. Was he destined to become this two-faced? Could he change his perception of someone without being aware of doing so? His own father held a secret loathing for everything- his ruthless Master could not be exempt.

Draco shook his head and shoved the musings out of his mind. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, then returned to the Death Eaters.

***

"Draco," called Narcissa sharply, "Bella is here."

Draco was wearing the long black robes. They were very whispy but at the same time warm, especially in the summer heat. Draco inspected his reflecion in the full-sized mirror in the living room. He certainly looked impressive and imposing. Draco had never felt more like an adult, and he grinned at himself from the rush of it all.

"DRACO!" One of the women shrieked. Draco jumped and hastened to the entrance hall. Bellatrix stood in her usual uniform. She wrapped her hand around Draco's forearm very painfully and dragged him outside. Narcissa's vague good bye was cut off by the front door slamming behind them.

"Where're we going?" Draco gasped. He stumbled over his new robes slightly as he struggled to keep up with his unnaturally agile aunt.

"To our main Headquarters!" cried Bellatrix. She stopped in her tracks; Draco almost collided with her. She threw her head back and grinned up at the cloudy sky, the light reflecting off her pale skin eerily.

Feeling embarrassed and self-conscious, even though nobody but the bushes could possibly be watching, Draco slapped his free hand to his face.

"Come." Bellatrix's grip somehow tightened; Draco winced. The next moment he was flung around to face the woman. Her teeth were bared; he could almost feel the adrenaline pumping through her. He didn't understand the excitement of the situation. "You must swear to secrecy."

"What?" said Draco. Of course this was secret. "Of course!"

"The Dark Lord is the Secret Keeper," she said, and now she dropped her voice to a low hiss; she glanced around the vacant garden warily. "But once you know this information, you are able to expand the people within the Fidelius Charm. Your mother doesn't know the place. Do you understand?"

"Keep it secret, keep it safe," said Draco desperately; his arm felt like it was splintering under her grip.

Finally Bellatrix let go of him and reached into her pocket. She withdrew a very thick envelope and handed it to Draco. He extended his hand for it; when he touched it, it stung him painfully. Draco leapt back, clutching his hand.

"Blood hell-!"

"It knows you're second guessing yourself, Draco," spat Bellatrix. "Focus your mind to prove to this that you swear the secrecy."

Feeling rather miffed at having to proove his worth to a parchment, Draco tried to focus his thoughts and feelings. He definitely swore. Now with his head held high he reached out for the envelope again. It didn't hurt him. Slowly Bellatrix let him tug it out of her grip.

It was pure white parchment, strangely smooth and heavy. There was no flap; simply a seal of a green snake protruding crudely from a silver skull's mouth.

"How do I open it?" Draco's voice came out in a whisper.

"With the charm," said Bellatrix breathlessly. "'Morsmordre!'"

Draco swallowed and took a deep breath. He took his wand out of his pocket and pointed it firmly at the seal. "Morsmordre!" he said clearly. There was a flash and the envelope unsealed itself and then transfigured itself into the letter.

"Whisper it," commanded Bellatrix.

"The Headquarters of the dark Lord V-Voldemort resides at Number Six, Emerald Tower, Manchester, England."

No sooner had he finished saying this than the parchment burst into flames; Draco dropped it.

"Welcome," said Bellatrix. She was grinning. She took Draco's hand tightly and turned on the spot. Draco was dragged into the oppressive vacuum, and thankfully air returned to his lungs quite soon. He stumbled slightly and realized he was treading on a gravel path. The sky was darker and more ominous here, the wind moaned as if in pain. Draco shuddered.

He looked up at the building before them. It was a mere house, the bleak face uninviting , a desolate landscape of decayed trees and grassless land surrounding it. The walls were faceless and the windows dead and haunted. It could not have been a more miserable place. Draco wondered how on earth someone as proud as Lord Voldemort could ever consider the dump suitable for looking at let alone using for a headquarters.

"Er," said Draco uncertainly, "Are you sure this is it...?"

But Bellatrix now took his hand again. She whispered something and stepped forward; Draco hastened to follow. And as if he had stepped over a magical boundary (which, he then realized he obviously had), a beautiful building appeared there. It was a small castle, a miniature version of Hogwarts perhaps. The front door was green and on it was painted the fabled icon. The house looked more inviting, but Draco felt more apprehensive than ever.

"Draco," said Bellatrix sharply, "Stop thinking. You are -happy- for this, are you not? You are worthy and accepting."

Slowly a smile crept upon Draco's face. He felt important and brave. That building represented absolute power- why would Draco ever doubt it? He was special, and finally not just by his mother's standards. He was being sought to come into the circle of the elite.

"That's a boy," said Bellatrix. She did not touch him this time but led him up the sweeping steps. Draco was close on her heel, determinedly forcing away any shadowy doubts or uneasy fears that protruded the black edges of his heart.

"You should knock," said Bellatrix. He was watching her nephew closely and critically, reading his face for doubts. Draco's visage did not break. His heart beating hard in his chest, Draco reached up for the freezing brass knocker, which was in the shape of a serpent. Resigning himself firmly, Draco wrapped his hand around the brass serpent and knocked it against the heavy door three times.

The three blows seemed to rattle Draco's senses. He released the knocker and withdrew his trembling hand.

The sound of several locks being slid aside was loud for a moment; then the door swung open. A thin, stooped man, with a face like a rat's, stood inside, caressing a silver glove on his left hand.

"Ah, Miss Bellatrix," he simpered. "Young Mr. Malfoy. I remember seeing you on your first day of Hogwarts...what a f-fine young man you are now!"

Draco wrinkled his nose. He had never met this man, he was certain of it.

"I am Peter Pettigrew," said the man. Draco's mouth fell open as he stared at a man who was supposed to be dead and gone. "You can call me Wormtail."

"Er," said Draco, feeling very disarmed, "All right."

"You needn't bother yourself with him," said Bellatrix waspishly. "Come, Draco, and meet your new Master."

"Master is in the main room," sneered Wormtail.

"Isn't he supposed to be dead?" Draco muttered to his aunt as the walked together swiftly down a formidable hallway.

"The noble idiot Harry Potter let him survive," said Bellatrix cooly. "Of course, it is Wormtail who did aid the Dark Lord back to his full power and working body. He was a traitor for the other side; turned in the Potters. I suppose it was fortunate for us that the little Potter was stupid and a coward."

"Yeah," Draco mumbled vaguely. They were now approaching a wider area. Flickering firelight cast shadows on the walls. The floor was covered in a large Oriental rug. A few people occupied the room, but Draco's eyes fell upon Lord Voldemort for the first time.

The sixteen-year-old boy was terrified. Lord Voldemort's skin was as white as snow; his lips were almost nonexistent and thin; his nose was flat, like a snake's. And his eyes- his eyes were bright scarlet red, the pupils were sharp slits. A live snake was draped over his shoulders and he pet the reptile with one long, spidery finger. The atmosphere of the room was tense and cold.

"Mr. Malfoy," he hissed. His voice was high and barely more than a whisper, but it commanded every fiber of Draco's attention.

"M-My Lord," Draco stammered. He shuffled forwards and bowed until he was staring at his knees.

"Thank you," said the Dark Lord quietly.

Draco raised his blond head and he stood straight slowly.

"Welcome," said the Dark Lord, "to the mission. My mission is your mission, Draco Malfoy." The white hand stroking the serpent suddenly closed into a fist. "The mission of building Wizard Supremacy, of ridding the world of Mudblood filth, of gaining endless power for us both." His red eyes gleamed. Draco refused to shudder, blink, move, or think.

"You're a respectable boy," said the Dark Lord slowly and he began to pace steadily. His hands now laced behind his back and he surveyed his newcomer, the fresh portion of life he could torture. "You come from a good pure-blood stock and most likely will be mechanical in carrying out my orders. You have much to learn, and I will teach you personally."

Elation found it's way to Draco's heart. His eyes gleamed in the firelight. "That is the highest honor, sir," he said shakily. His amazement was beginning to eclipse his fear. "I shall be your most faithful, most successful--"

"Enough," whispered Voldemort, and Draco felt a silencing spell cut across him. "First I welcome you generously. You will not always have my generosity, Draco Malfoy, and you have yet to earn my trust. Your father himself is questionable...you must prove yourself, young man."

Draco nodded his head vigorously.

A long, deafening silence stretched between them. It occupied the room and tugged at Draco's stomach uneasily.

A cold smile was on the Dark Lord's face. He extended his hand. "Come."

Draco walked quickly over to him, his heart now in his throat. His eyes never left those pitiless red ones.

"Put out your left hand."

Draco's eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat. He swallowed and slowly pulled back his sleeve. He turned his palm upward and extended his arm. His pale skin gleamed white from the dimly lit chandelier. To his surprise, the Dark Lord's white finger's met his own arm. Draco gasped, his eyes as round as galleons, his mouth open slightly. Time seemed to be standing still as Voldemort touched his exposed arm. His fingers were extremely cold.

"Bring them over," said the Dark Lord.

Draco didn't know what he meant. However, the next moment another person brought over a bubbling cauldron and a poker. The potion was green and seemed to be like brownish glue.

"You'll find that you can speak now," said the Dark Lord softly with a slight smirk. Draco could only nod.

"Wormtail, hold his arm for me," commanded the Dark Lord. Wormtail bustled over to Draco's otherside. He forced Draco's sleeve up almost to the boy's shoulder and held the arm out straight, elevating it at the palm of Draco's hand.

"Do you swear yourself to my service, Draco Abraxas Malfoy, for your entire mortal life?"

The words shook Draco's very soul. His eyes darted from his blank, expecting arm, to the frightening, expectful face. He glanced at Wormtail whose face was impassive.

"Yes," said Draco firmly.

And the Dark Lord smiled in a way that made Draco feel a shiver sweep up his spine. With a short thrill of fear, the Dark Lord reached for the poker. Draco realized that one the end of it was the iron outline of the Dark Mark. He was being branded! Slowly and deliberately, purely to taunt the boy, the Dark Lord dipped the poker into the bubbling potion a few times. He withdrew it; the potion dripped sickeningly. He raised his long wand and wordlessly wiggled it; the poker vibrated then the marking part turned bring orange.

Draco's eyes were almost wider than they could physically go. His knees were shaking, barely supporting him. A wild panic, a frenzy of fear, was all he knew to exist as the poker approached his innocent arm. His dry lips trembled as for a moment the poker was suspended half an inch from his arm; then it fell on his skin.

Oh how it burned!

Draco slammed his eyes shut and he turned his face away from it all, screwing it up. The pain was unbearable, his arm seemed to be wearing a sleeve of fire. He wanted it to end. Most of all he wanted to scream, to throw himself on the floor and yell his failing lungs out, but he did not let even a squeak escape his lips.

The poker was released, but it might as well have stayed there. The pain was just as present and now it seemed to spread. The Dark Lord pointed his wand at the arm; a double dose of pain was added and Draco promptly bit through his bottom lip.

"Impressive," said the Dark Lord. "Most of the grown men howl like dogs."

Draco put his free hand up to his lip. His mouth was entirely filled with blood; he half vomited it up over his hand. His lip was searing in pain. It seemed to have leveled out the pain in his arm, but everything was still quite unbearable.

"It seems you would rather sacrifice your whole bottom lip rather than to betray your visage," said the Dark Lord. "I value that, Draco Malfoy. You are -most- welcome here."

Draco barely heard this. His head had a splitting ache, and he could barely see anything; his stomach was totally nauseous. He still spewed blood helplessly and he could do nothing to stop the pain in his lip or arm.

"You may go."

Wormtail's support disappeared and Draco's arm fell limply to his side. With immense difficulty he raised it up and stared at it. There it was...branded into his very skin. Rivers of blood dribbled onto it; it became more painful.

He felt strong arms by his arm; he was being dragged down a hallway and the next moment fresh air hit him dizzyingly. For a moment all air was gone and he was being compressed through nothingness---

Draco vaguely remembered people fussing over him; a sharp pinching pain at his lip...and then he was in his bedroom. Someone was crying the whole time.

Feeling dazed, Draco sat up in his bed. He stared at his left arm, aghast, and then at his right. The reality hit him like a bludger. His arm, his simple right forearm, had never looked so beautiful and fresh. His other- an ugly, unbearably painful tattoo glared up from it.

Draco felt his stomach heave and he rolled over to the edge of his bed. Vertigo obscured his vision and he was back to total confusion. He felt his heart swell, and then tears welled in his eyes. The boy cried, he sobbed over the edge of his matress, weeping piteously.

Absolutely drained, with a strangled moan Draco fell back into his pillow as his last ounce of strength left him and the black around the edges of his brain engulfed him.


End file.
